Masquerade
by akuoni
Summary: Hide behind a mask. The world doesn't see. Take off the mask. Become free
1. Paper Faces on Parade

**Guess who decided to de-anon for this one~**

**I did~XD**

**Hope you guys enjoy~**

**And the titles belong to Webber. the Characters belong to Hidekayaz. And the plot theme belongs to the OP~**

* * *

He wore a crème baseball cap and a pair of tan slacks and a white shirt with a brown vest. He didn't speak loudly. In fact, he barely spoke at all as he puttered about the market with a contented expression. He would point to things and ask "Cuanta cuesta?" How much? They assumed he was from the Americas. Canada maybe. He never said either way.

"Hola senior~" The green-eyed youth waved, making the man stiffen. He raised a confused brow as he tried to place the familiar face. Not America, surely this quiet man merely- Oh! The man was hurrying away like he was being chased by a demon. The green-eyed man shrugged. How strange the foreigner was. He must have had his wallet stolen. Poor Canadians never caught a break.

* * *

He wore black slacks this time, and a navy blue sweater, a pair of white gloves and a white scarf to keep him warm as he sipped his tea with a melancholy expression. He wore a nice warm hat, obscuring his hair from sight as he watched the people travel to and fro on this chilly day. He drank his tea black and bitter. He liked it that way. He missed drinking tea, but they expected him to drink coffee. So he did.

"Guten tag," a blond man greeted his brunet friend the table over. The man stiffened in his seat. He waved over the waitress and paid the bill for his tea. He didn't want to be noticed. They never saw him in the calm man who sat and spoke softly and drank tea like a true English Gentleman.

* * *

He wore a pair of jeans and a red hoodie. The hood covered his head as he sat. The game was intense. Both sides were screaming bloody murder as the game raged. But he was placid as a lake. The one he had come to see was pitching a fit and waving his hockey stick with deadly intent. He could have laughed that he was always invisible when it counted most. Instead he cried as he smiled.

"What the hell?" the Canadian could have sworn he saw his brother. But that quiet man staring at him so intently couldn't be him. America was so loud and boisterous. He never cried while smiling at a goal by a Canadian Hockey player. He would be amongst the fighters, screaming his head off like the hot headed American he was.

* * *

Alfred Always spoke loudly at the meetings, but this was just plain ridiculous. They wouldn't be surprised if he could be heard through the floors. He didn't seem to notice as he got between Israel and Palestine. Yelling something about brothers and not fighting. Israel gave him the cold shoulder while Palestine verbally ripped his head off, making him retreat like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. He tried with Serbia and Kosovo, but was dealt with similarly. He tried to intervene again and again. No one noticed the strange expression flickering across his face. This was America the Fool after all.

"FUCK ALL OF YOU ASSHOLES!" They silenced, staring at the seething blond. He glared at them, blue eyes glowing and glittering behind steel rims. They all hated him, "I get it! You all hate me! No matter how hard I try… You just… You just…"

A strangled sound. But this is America. He never cries. He always laughs it off and says something stupid. But he isn't laughing. He's sobbing. Large tears roll down his face as he stands there, rubbing with the sides and heels and palms of his hands until they are as wet as the rest of his face. They stare because this isn't how America is supposed to act. He's supposed to be the one who acts like an idiot and grins as they whisper behind his back. He isn't supposed to know how they resent him for his nosiness or his hero-complex that has to save everyone even if they don't want it. He moves quickly, turning and vanishing like he has apparated. But he hasn't; the banging door of the conference room is the proof they need.


	2. The World Will Never Find You

**Guess who decided to de-anon for this one~**

**I did~XD**

**Hope you guys enjoy~**

**And the titles belong to Webber. the Characters belong to Hidekayaz. And the plot theme belongs to the OP~**

* * *

"Go away," the words are empty, void of emotion, but he does not shudder. He ignores the command and enters. The blank blue bedsheets are lumpy. The American is curled up underneath them. He sits down on the bed and puts his hand on the lump.

"I never thanked you for coming to my games," The lump makes a choked sound, "I am sorry for not seeing you. Can you forgive me?"

""s'not like you care…" He stills. How can America say that? Of course he cares. He cares every time America makes a mistake. It costs so much for all those stupid plots and pranks and… Oh. He wonders when he lost sight of the real America, "Now you see… Go away Canada. Be happy. You're the Good Child of the Americas."

"That's not-" a sharp bark of laughter interrupts.

"I have to pretend to be _you_ to even be treated with a _modicum _of respect," the tone is soft, but there is a seething anger beneath it. The passive-aggressive side of him is impressed, "I can't drink tea because_ America_ doesn't drink tea. I can't be calm because _America_ is the hyper one. I have to hide behind a mask to be allowed to take pleasure in other countries. You get to walk around freely and be treated like a fucking prince because _Canada_'s the fucking Good boy. GO away little Prince. Let me wallow in peace."

He stands and leaves. Because he's the obedient one. But he wonders. How long until he can see both sides and recognize them? He had never known his brother watched his games. But he had never questioned the man in the red hooded sweater that had come to every one of his games since the sport had been invented…


	3. Fool Any Friend Whoever Knew You

**Guess who decided to de-anon for this one~**

**I did~XD**

**Hope you guys enjoy~**

**And the titles belong to Webber. the Characters belong to Hidekayaz. And the plot theme belongs to the OP~**

* * *

Six months. America had vanished, spirited away like a ghost, and Canada was the face of the Americas. He hated every second of it. His brother had vanished. Gone for now. Gone for good? It mattered not. The room was oddly quiet. No Englishman or Frenchman fighting. No Russian creeping out the Baltics. No Turk leering at the Greek. The dynamic had been thrown off.

He was seen for who he was. The welcoming faces growing annoyed and bitter. He was not America, though he tried his best to be what they wanted. He found them resenting him for not being their scapegoat. It grated his nerves. Enough was enough. He drank. To the point he became inebriated. He began to wake up in jail as often as not. The people seemed to think he was American because of this. He could have laughed at the hypocrisy as he eyed the blond sipping daintily from a cup of tea as he held a book in front of his face and read it intently. It was amazing how one could hide in plain sight.

* * *

"Hello Prince," the American turned a page, never looking at him. He grimaced, "You don't like it?"

"I'm no Prince, Alfred."

"Hm… What a _pity_…" The odd inflection made a shiver run down his spine. But he didn't back down. The American picked up a scrap of red fabric and used it to mark his place. Blue eyes finally alighted on the Canadian's leaner, but taller, frame. The American didn't smile, "What do you want Good Boy?"

"Come Back. We miss you." A bark of angry laughter.

"You miss hating me. Go back to your planet Little Prince. I am happy here on my own," He smiled as he stood, handing the money to the waitress and vanishing into the crowd.

* * *

He was gone again. The America everyone knew was just a ghost. A phantasm. When had they truly lost sight of him? 


	4. Let the Spectacle Astound You

**Guess who decided to de-anon for this one~**

**I did~XD**

**Hope you guys enjoy~**

**And the titles belong to Webber. the Characters belong to Hidekayaz. And the plot theme belongs to the OP~**

* * *

America couldn't escape. Everywhere he went. Another face was there. Italy Russia Germany Spain. He was being hunted. But He didn't get why. Shouldn't they be happy he was gone? It doesn't matter. He could change faces like a true master of the arts. He was no Bond, but he was a damn good Thespian.

* * *

He's at the most famous Carnival of Venice. He smiles because he loves to wear masks. And this time it's visible. He smiles as he twitches his cape and makes it billow even without a breeze. The Venetians laugh along with him, because he is alive and vibrant. He is his mask. His mask is bright gold with a scarlet red grin. His cape spins around him as he whirls to a dervish tune. Gold flickering at the edges like bright flames licking a letter to be burnt. He sings with his body, dances with his voice. He doesn't see the brunet with a mask of gold peacock feathers eye him contemplatively before turning to a blond clad in royal blue breeches.

And the Venetians sing and dance along with him.

* * *

Mardi Gras is winding down, but he's still there. His face is painted with blue around blue eyes while white obscures his tan and red extends his grin. And he's dancing with a pretty girl. A ruby heart adorns her mask, but she is no queen of hearts. And he is no priest of the cloth. The Ace and the Clown are happy as they foxtrot and dance to the old ragtime. They part ways with soft smiles and he never sees the long blond hair hidden behind a Rouge lion's arrogance The one that frowns behind the serene mask as enlightenment strikes. Nor does he see the black king who shares a nod of acceptance.

The French quarter has never been so alive.

* * *

He is enjoying a glass of burgundy wine this time, swirling it idly as he leans over a different book. He doesn't speak as the Canadian sits.

"Hello Little Prince," He has given up on changing America's mind. He finally understood the reference. Blue eyes look up at him, "Ready to return to your planet?"

"Are you the Snake or the Rose?" He sees the sad smile on the American's face.

"I am whoever you think I am."

* * *

Alfred is back for the next meeting. He smiles as he eats his everlasting hamburgers. He talks loudly. And he intervenes yet again.

But he smiles at the Canadian. For there is someone he can talk to when things become too grim. The burden of Power is too great for just one man. But two may be able to stand without being crushed.


End file.
